


Bending the Knee

by drollicpixie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cavesex, F/M, Incest, PWP, frombehind, nakedwomandressedman, thisisjustaboutmakingthemfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 21:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11882880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drollicpixie/pseuds/drollicpixie
Summary: Just a little PWP. Cavesex. Because Jon and Daenerys are so pretty together. I would leave more summary but that about sums it up.





	Bending the Knee

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even sure where this naughty little romp came from. Maybe it was just how pretty Jon and Daenerys looked together as he moved her torch arm to illuminate the carving of the White Walkers. This is a more playful Jon than serious, but hey, it's fiction. Not beta'd, written on my phone, read through once to look for glaring errors. If I've missed anything, I apologize. Also, it's incest. But the Targaryen's love incest. Possibly, all of Westeros does...

"Why are you wearing so many silly, silly clothes?" He breathes against the pale column of her throat. 

"Ungh," is her only reply. 

Jon Snow, King of the North, he who refuses to bend the knee, at least so far, is in the midst of grappling with the light leggings she wears under her skirt. Daenerys, for her part, clings to him, one hand weaving through his dark as night hair, the other arm slung around his neck. Her back is up against the rough hewn rock wall, ancient carvings pressing into the fabric of her shirt as she angles to wrap her calf around his thigh, desperate for more friction. 

"And you're not making this any easier for me, Your Grace," he intones. 

She doesn't know how the man's gruff voice manages to make the words 'Your Grace' sound so dirty, so mocking. Truth be told, his Northern accent makes her insides melt a little bit like hot butter in a frying pan. "Jon," she groans, high pitched and needy, her thighs squeezing him. 

And then his fingers are on her. Running along the smooth lips, spreading her wetness, "Is this all for me?" he asks, she can hear his grin. 

"Please."

Daenerys Targaryen does not beg. Or plead. She is a queen. Rightful heir to the Iron Throne. But in this moment, she is willing to do just about anything to make this man touch her. 

He doesn't need her to say it twice. Jon hooks his wrist and two fingers slide into her quivering passage. Her back arches, body greedy for more. She's gasping still, breath escaping in heady little puffs. 

"Now this," his lips return to hers for a searing kiss, "this I could listen to all day". But even as he says it she feels his fingers withdraw, slide across that little button of pleasure, pausing to give the lightest pinch, making her squeak like a little mouse. Those wet digits glide up her belly and firmly under her shirt before halting all progress. 

"Jon," she groans into his mouth, nipping his lower lip, tugging it with her teeth. She wants to sound like she's giving him a warning but she's too desperate. 

He removes the hand all together and all Daenerys can do is stare at him, eyes wide and doe like. 

Those deft fingers find the bindings to her garment and rent them apart, tugging, until the shirt falls open and gapes to the side before being shoved down her arms entirely. The attached sheer skirt falls away with it leaving her half way to bare. The air is cool but her skin feels as though it is on fire. There is nothing beneath but a linen binding around her breasts. And yet when he sees it, he groans again, "So much silly clothing," his tone all mock disappointment.

This time he bends down, hand at his boot, and stands back up with a small dagger. She gasps, splutters, reminding him with indignation, "You were required to give up all of your weapons upon arrival, Lord Snow."

"Oh, we're back to Lord Snow, are we?" He smirks, infuriatingly. 

Her chest is rising and falling rapidly as he brings the small blade up, holding her gaze, and slicing the binding in two, exposing the pebbled pink nipples underneath. Without further thought he drops the dagger to the floor and takes one pale breast into his mouth. He sucks, the sound obscene, while Daenerys' eyes float closed, a new burst of wetness soaking her leggings, slicking her thighs. 

She rubs them together as her hands move, lifting his leather jerkin, and palming him through the stiff material of his pants. Under the coarse layer he is hot and heavy and yearning. His hips thrust into her palm as he lets loose a stuttering breath. 

"I want you," she tells him, sounding regal and imperious, and almost impressing herself with the steadiness of her own voice. Then adds, "Now," just so there is no confusion. 

"As you wish, Your Grace."

He spins her slowly and not unkindly, placing her palms firmly against the rock wall. She still wears the leggings though nothing else. The man takes his time studying her, eyes roving over every inch of exposed milk white skin.

There is a moment when his hands leave her and she is bereft of his touch, glancing over her shoulder and biting her lip to keep from crying out her need any more than she already has. But what she sees leaves her grinning once more. His hands fumbling with the laced front of his trousers, desperate and clumsy. 

Cool air cascades over her bare backside as the pants are tugged down roughly and his palm warms her hip before she feels the nudge of his cock. Daenerys, in that moment, so wishes she had caught a glimpse of it before she put her gaze back upon the wall. She imagines it is beautiful, just like him. 

The tip glides through her wetness, spreading it, tantalizing her, and then for a second he is gone before he sheathes himself entirely in one forceful thrust. 

Daenarys cries out, surprise and pleasure forming a knot in her throat. 

Jon's mouth is on the join of her neck and shoulder, sucking, laving, a nip of his blunt teeth, his tongue soothing over the spot. "You'll leave a mark," she whispers to him breathlessly. 

"Perhaps," he replies not sounding the least bit contrite. 

He ruts into her like a beast, breathing heavily, his skin slapping against her own. And she keens. At one time in her past Daenerys had found this position so detestable, unworthy, but Jon Snow makes her appreciate it. For a quick fuck, while others wait just outside the cave, it is perfect. 

His cock strokes something inside of her that makes her knees quiver. In fact her whole body is shaking with it. He loops an arm around her waist, holding her up, holding her to him, as he pounds into her. 

Daenerys tries to stay quiet, biting first her lip and then her hand, but a particularly vicious snap of his hips leaves her reeling, shouting out her pleasure, all but crying. And as his other hand comes around, his fingers slipping between them to seek her wetness, he finds that nub again and strokes it, the fire in her belly doubling. 

She eventually becomes aware of the fact that she is chanting his name in time with the meeting of their hips. "Jon, yes, please, Jon, Jon, Jon." 

He responds by groaning in her ear and muttering words like, beautiful, gorgeous, and fucking, against her hair. 

"Are you going to cum for me?" He all but growls, grinding into her. 

Daenerys whimpers and nods, her body bending further forward, taking him even deeper so that his next thrust skims past that spot, the one that makes her scream, before bumping her cervix, and just like that she's quaking and spasming all around him, her cunt clutching at him. 

Jon pulls out of her, gives himself two good pumps, and spills across her pale back, ropes of white sticking to her skin. It's warm and he's warm as he steps back up behind her, one hand fondling her breast as the other smooths over her exposed rump. 

"Mmmm," she murmurs, spent and feeling delightfully like a jelly.

He's turning her around again, back to face him, and his eyes are soft. She kisses him, her breasts flush against his still clothed chest, an electric charge running down her spine at the feel of it, him. 

Jon drops to his knees before her, his mouth on her belly, raining light kisses over the flesh there as he grabs her leggings and slides them up her legs. His warm gaze meets her own just as he nips the soft skin with his teeth making her jump. 

When he stands her fingers run through his hair, her lips on his chin, the strong line of his jaw, his full mouth, as he tucks his cock back into his trousers.

He helps her with her discarded shirt, slipping her arms into the sleeves. 

"Your spend is still on my back," she tells him, relaxed, voice muffled against his broad shoulder. 

"I know," he smirks and does nothing to rectify the situation. Daenerys rolls her eyes but leaves it to dry there.

Once she is laced back into her garment, her hair patted flat, Jon grabs the smoldering torch they had earlier abandoned from its place on the dirt floor, the flames quickly returning to life in his hand. 

"Shall we?" He asks, his composure perfect, though his eyes burn a bit brighter, the lines of his mouth are a bit softer. He holds out an arm for her adding, "My queen." And she knows what he is saying, implying. That he will bend to her will, that he will bow to her. But Daenerys suddenly isn't so sure that she wants him as some bannerman. She wants him to be so much more. But there is no time for that, not now, not with no word from Greyworm, not with this further evidence of the Night King bearing down on them from the unknown wild North. 

She takes the offered arm feeling every bit the Queen with such a man at her side. 

As they make their way to the exit, the light of day, the beach beyond coming visible, she pauses, looks up at his face. "Perhaps, Lord Snow, you would join me for dinner tonight in my private rooms."

"Private rooms," he repeats with a twinkle in his eye. 

She affirms with a nod and an answering grin.

"Why, it would be my pleasure, Your Grace."


End file.
